It Rises Slowly As You Walk
by The Jaxter
Summary: "It churns his stomach when Daryl sees the jagged and raised lines of scars litter diagonally on her back. It looked like she was pushed onto broken glass. Some are white, some are mixture of pink and gray—he can't seem to look away..." Carol and Daryl share a moment in the early days of winter. Based off a list of prompts from hellolittlemonsterz.


**AN: Another foray into the Carol and Daryl relationship that started to grow in the winter months. Please be sure to check out ****laceknee on tumblr, she made a wonderful comic depicting a scene here. Please read and review! I love them dearly. This was inspired by hellolittlemonsterz list of prompts and ideas she gave me. **

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** It Rises Slowly as You Walk: A Carol/Daryl Story**

He knew she would have scars.

Daryl just didn't think they would be so visible.

She had decided to wear a tank top, that day they went out searching for Sophia. The tan, frumpy holey sweater she wore did nothing to hide the marred freckled flesh. Daryl had stared at her back for a few moments, saw the distinct landmarks of cigarette burns. If anyone saw them, no one said anything about it; the woman just lost her daughter to the woods and they all knew where they came from.

He remembers clenching his crossbow tighter at the thought, and continued trekking back to the highway. They had paused, because Lori needed to put her two cents in on how Carol needed to stop "looking" at her husband like its his fault her daughter is gone.

_Doesn't Lori understand that her little girl is lost in the woods during a zombie-fucking apocalypse? _

He had scoffed at the notion; if he'd been there he would have told her to stay put. First rule of getting lost: If you know someone is going to come looking for you stay in the same place, someone will eventually find you.

Daryl didn't blame Rick for what happened to Sophia, or Carol despite what he had told her—but it tore at his soul each time he remembers little Sophia stumbling out of that barn.

"You should really get some sleep you know."

From whatever fantasyland he was in, it's Carol's voice that brought him out of it and he is thankful. He didn't need anymore-fucking ghosts on his conscious; there's enough evidence of that on his skin. Daryl meets her eyes for a second before grunting at her statement that he needed to sleep.

T-Dog and Rick were keeping watch from an abandoned car a few feet away. The rest of their group was sound asleep, huddled up together in front of the fire and cuddling with their significant others. It's been a little over two months (he has no fucking clue, really) since the farm, and getting supplies has proved to be so hard due to the herds of walkers blocking the big huge strip mall that should have everything they need.

"Pfft." He scoffs, "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

Unconsciously, he rubs at a scar he that's on his arm to keep himself occupied from her more than obvious eye rolling.

"Whatever you say Daryl," she says, the campfire flames making her eyes shine somewhat in the darkness. Carol draws her knees up to her chest, protecting herself from the cold breeze, it's kind of pointless seeing as how she's only wearing a blouse and that frumpy tan sweater. He reminds himself that they need to get more winter clothes; they can't afford to get sick right now. "Maybe tonight I can actually get some sleep, because if it isn't walkers, it's your loud as hell snoring."

He's not sure why he starts to chuckle, because it's not even that funny, but he does and it's probably the first time he's chuckled since—the time he got shitfaced at the CDC.

Because really, who would have thought Carol had a great sense of humor. Then again, other than the fact that her good as dead husband beat her and that she's a good mama, he doesn't know absolutely everything about her.

Just small things.

_And why the fuck does he care anyway?_

"I don't snore." Daryl tells her, throwing another stick of wood to the fire. It's a lie because he damn well knows he snores, that's why he and Merle didn't share a tent back in the quarry.

Carol laughs, and it disturbs him deeply that he enjoys the sound. Even with the dimming light of the campfire, he notices how her eyes crinkle and how much younger she looks. He decides that she should laugh more; it kind of makes their situation (or at least his, anyway) a little lighter.

"Denial is not just a river in Egypt, Daryl Dixon." She says with a yawn and her eyelids start to droop. "Night, Daryl. Don't stay up too late."

He's not sure how she does it, but she's out the moment she lays down on a bed of leaves she made herself, resting on her stomach and nuzzling her head into her pillow. There weren't enough blankets to go around for everyone, so Carol opted to just take the damn thing. It sort of makes him mad, that she's always putting everyone's well being above her own, but he guesses that's just another part of who Carol is.

Lately, it's been like this. Daryl taking solace in the fact that he's providing for her, and keeping her safe. In return, she goes out of her way to make sure that he's okay, and that he eats.

He notices something slowly rising within her, just a little spark of maybe who she was before the world went to shit. Daryl twitches his lips at the thought; scratch that before that bastard beat it out of her.

Just last week she asked him if he'd teach her how to shoot. He's proud of her for that, even though he doesn't show it like a normal person would. It's simple survival really, and taking a quick glance at Beth huddled between her father and Maggie—they all need to learn something. His gaze shifts back to Carol, curling herself tighter into a little ball to keep herself warm.

_Gonna fucking catch a cold at this rate_.

He already has his own blanket; it's thick and ugly with little orange and black designs on it. Daryl found it in a convenience store the other day, and got ragged on by Glenn because the "blanket" is really a poncho.

He may have not put intestines all over his precious box of condoms.

With a sigh Daryl stands, rummaging through his pack to find the last of his long sleeves and goes over to Carol to drape it over her slender frame. Just like before, he sees them. Angry cigarette burns, that are a dull pink now. It churns his stomach when Daryl sees the jagged and raised lines of scars that litter diagonally across her back. It looked like she was _pushed_ onto broken glass. Some are white, some are mixture of pink and gray—he can't seem to look away.

She makes no effort in hiding them anymore, it's like she's wearing her scars with pride. She's unembarrassed by them, because they are living proof that she survived Ed, and she sure as hell is going to survive now. Well, she has him to help her out with that. He'd be damned if he let anything happen to her. It's a promise he aims to keep, less he does something to royally fuck this up.

Daryl tucks her into his jacket, a faint smile on his lips when she curls herself into it. He goes back to his spot, putting on the poncho that everyone finds so damn amusing. It's not his fault that he's the only one here that can pull off a Clint Eastwood without even trying.

His eyes start to droop a bit, and he should at least get two hours in before he has to take over for T-Dog. Daryl takes one more look Carol, sleeping soundly, and he realizes that the long-sleeve still has his leather vest on it—she's got wings now.

Maybe she'd finally be free of them.

Those scars.

**-Fin-**


End file.
